


Mortuum Hominis

by lumineaux



Series: The Light Bearer [2]
Category: Metalocalypse
Genre: Barebacking, Biting, Bondage, Dominance and Submission, Klokateer Appreciation, Light Torture, M/M, and because i'm a sappy romantic fuck and thought he deserved the world's best partner, because charles is the coulson of dethklok, body hair fetish, cfo stanning, let's be real cfo is an otter, spats
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-02
Updated: 2015-11-09
Packaged: 2018-04-24 10:05:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4915330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lumineaux/pseuds/lumineaux
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of non-plot-essential asides that are still part of <i>Morte Lumina</i> and The Light Bearer Series.</p><p>Because I like my bare-knuckle fights and ends of the world with a side of smut and fluff, and you dildos know you do, too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Nifty, Nifty, Charles is Fifty

**Author's Note:**

> DISCLAIMER: Me no getting paid for this, me no has ownership.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is the first of the aside series I'll be posting. A short vignette set somewhere mid-Season 3.
> 
>   _Offdensen finds horsepower very cathartic._

The boys had already left without him. He’d gotten up an hour earlier than his usual ( _insane_ ) 4AM just to be ready and packed to go. Amsterdam had always been his favorite place to holiday, and for his big five-oh, to medium-style boot.

And they had fucking _left, **without** him._

He had thrown his suitcases so hard against the closet doors that Quinn had bolted out of bed, nude, and stormed in with Glock drawn, safety off. “What the _fuck_? Are you all right?”

Foster had only smoothed his hair back and nodded stiffly. “Yes, I’m _fine_.”

He had thrown himself into his work. All the appointments that had been pushed back for this weekend that the boys had impromptu planned for him the drunken night before, he made calls and took care of what he could, doing housekeeping bullshit paperwork to keep himself from getting too close to the seething rage. It was nearly 10PM when he finally made his way to his apartment for the evening. Quinn was heading out the door as he was coming in.

“Oh! I was just heading out to find you. Since you’re still here, do you want to make a market run with me?”

Offdensen let out a growl. “I’m foucking tired…” He had begun to drop his put-on American accent around Quinn, his true Dutch coming through. It turned the younger man’s legs to rubber.

Quinn caught his arm as he started to roughly loosen his tie, forcing Foster to turn towards him and let Quinn take the tie off for him. “Hey… you go change into something comfortable--and warm, it’s chilly out tonight--and I’ll drive if you want, so you can sleep on the way. Please?”

The market they preferred was nearly an hour away. It was a cleansing drive; long enough away from work to feel detached and short enough to convince oneself to truly put the matter of things back at Mordhaus on hold for a while. Foster sighed, wrapping his arms around Quinn’s waist briefly, kissing over his collarbone before going to get changed. He swapped his glasses out for contacts and mussed his hair--not that he was often recognized, but it was a hassle and he preferred to avoid it--pulling on a pair of dark jeans and a v-necked t-shirt. He left on the loafers--with as much as he walked all day, he had to invest in comfortable dress shoes--and threw on Quinn’s black mechanic’s jacket. With a sigh, he returned to the foyer where Quinn was patiently waiting. “OK, let’s go.”

The walk down to the garage was loud with thoughts of being stood up like that, he was beginning to be deeply bothered by the way the band had started to turn on him, but he quieted those serpents with the soothing knowledge that he could at least spend the last hour or so of his birthday with Quinn, even if it was only in the silence of the car.

His mind was preoccupied, all the same, and it was not until they were walking past the usual incognito vehicles that he saw the bike.

Shiny chrome, hand-stitched leather, and the same fertile-earth bronze as the 1950 Indian Chief Black Hawk his seventeen year old self had left behind in Amsterdam.

“...it’s not…?”

“Perhaps in parts, you never know, but… well, you don't let me pay for anything, and I’ve had room and board included with my enlistment for the last seven years, so… my salary was going to waste. I found a good cause.” He side-stepped to a gunmetal grey Land Rover, opening the door and pulling out two full-face helmets, handing Foster one, along with the key, a single bauble hanging from it--titanium Gears.

Foster snatched the keys and then Quinn, kissing him so hard he didn’t have the sense to kiss back. When Foster broke away, a smile split his face and crinkled up the corners of his eyes like Quinn had never seen. He felt himself go just a little bit further, finding another, deeper level of himself for Foster to inhabit.

“I’m driving.” The smile disappeared behind the helmet’s dark mirrored visor and Quinn quickly traded his Hood out for his own helmet, his feet barely having left the ground as he mounted the bike behind Foster before they were tearing out of the garage, screaming up the main boulevard, and sailing over the bridge, off into the moonlit forests of Mordland.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I'm gagging, too, but it's so fun to write!!!


	2. Permission to Cum Aboard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This falls between chapters 11 and 12 of Morte Lumina. Quinn and Foster haven't seen each other in a while.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a blatantly fluffy fuckfest. (Yes, I'm pretty smug about that title.) It's also the longest chapter so far, and is the length I'll be shooting for with part 3 of this series.

It felt good being back in full uniform. The weight of the flak jacket and extra gear was a strange comfort. He had made the journey from the Church to the DethSub on his own, only having to pilot the submersible within range of it before Offdensen had locked onto him and set it for autopilot, bringing the pod in. It had given Quinn time to go over the dinner plans again, making sure they were perfect to present. With plenty of free time and years of shadowing Offdensen’s work, Quinn had insisted he take the pressure of the business dinner off him, taking care of the arrangements himself. He had already functioned as a sort of assistant from time to time, all of the contacts and Mordhaus staff took his word as surely as they’d have taken Offdensen’s, directly. It didn’t hurt that he had never corrected anyone when they assumed the plans had been Offdensen’s, anyway.

Boarding the sub, he made quick work crossing the huge vessel, avoiding any distractions due to the late hour. Though the band was prone to staying up for days, the Klokateers and crew were early to bed, early to rise, much like their Commander.

Reaching the office, Quinn stopped short a single step inside the door. Still trailing off from laughter, Offdensen sat, slack-tied and sans jacket, across from a grinning Abigail Remeltindtdrinc. He got the distinct impression they had just been talking about him.

“Ah, I’m sorry, sir, I didn’t know you had visitors. Miss Remeltindtdrinc.” He gave her a respectful nod and approached the desk, presenting the file with the mock-up menu, banquet hall design, and wine selection. He’d made certain to ensure it was as decadent and metal as possible, something that could pass for elegance to their financial backers but still appeal to the Dethklok image. Offdensen took it and set it in his inbox for the time being, next to the open, and half-empty, bottle of brandy. “I’ll leave you both in private, then.”

“No, no, you’re not interrupting anything.” Abigail gave him a smile that made him feel like he was being inspected. “This is him?” The question was directed at Offdensen, who--Quinn was sure of it, he didn’t think it was possible--blushed.

“Ah… yes. This is, ah…” He could see Quinn’s shoulders drawing tight, not sure what was going on. They had agreed to keep their private life private for a multitude of reasons, one of which simply being their mutual nature of being, well, private people. Quinn had thought that was a logical arrangement. Apparently Offdensen had decided differently while he was away. “Abigail, this is Quinn. Quinn, Abigail Remeltindtdrinc.”

 _Oh what the fuck…_ Quinn was glad for the Hood, gritting his teeth. “A pleasure, ma’am.” He offered his gloved hand to her and she shook it firmly, dismissing the honorific.

“Oh, _god_ , ma’am is too formal. Just Abigail is fine.”

Quinn nodded his understanding, then turned back to Foster. In Danish that still needed a bit of work, he asked, “ _Is there something I should know?_ ”

Foster could tell immediately that he’d crossed a line, giving Quinn an apologetic shrug. “ _I’ll explain later, but I trust her. It was strategic for me to tell her._ ”

Quinn sighed, nodding. Abigail raised a brow, turning towards Quinn and raising her glass. “Why don’t you join us?”

The Klokateer considered it for a moment. “All right. I need a quick shower, first, though. It was a long trip down.” He moved to walk behind Foster’s desk on his way to the door leading into their personal quarters, squeezing his lover’s shoulder, but Foster seized his wrist, tugging him back to the desk and clumsily into his lap, muttering in French, “ _What, no kiss hello? It’s only been five weeks…_ ”

Quinn let out a resigned sigh and draped his arms over the other’s shoulders, thankful for Abigail’s discretion as she pretended to be check her phone. “ _Oooh yaaay, you’re very, very drunk…_ ”

The pouting got him. Mostly just to take such a pitiful look off the face of the man that was still his Commander. “Fine…” He turned the chair so that they were obscured from view and let Foster pull up the edge of his Hood enough that he could lean down and kiss him. He had planned on just a short peck to appease him, but Foster’s kiss was not for the pecking type. He gave in for a moment, not noticing that the chair had begun to turn as their weight shifted, the left side of his face--the scarred side--now visible to Abigail as Foster reached under the Hood and pulled Quinn’s hair down.

Quinn pulled away and yanked his Hood back down, huffing as he removed himself from Foster’s lap, snatching the hair-tie away from him. “ _Stop_ it. And drink some water, I’m not feeling sorry for you if you’re hungover tomorrow.”

He gave Abigail another nod before disappearing into the bedroom, the door closing after him with a quiet hiss. “My French is rusty, but I think I may have gotten you in trouble.” Abigail was grinning, all the same. A few hours earlier, she had barged into the office unannounced and in a panic. She’d paced her small room trying to rationalize what had happened, and had come to Offdensen to resign, coming clean about what she and Nathan had done.

The response she was given stunned her. “Even if I were inclined to judge your actions, I’d have no place to.” Offdensen had taken a small framed photo from his desk drawer and handed it to her: a handsome young man leaning over a balcony railing at what appeared to be Mordhaus, caught in a candid smile. “He’s a Klokateer.”

He had asked her to please at least sleep on her decision, and if she still felt she needed to leave in the morning, he would file all the necessary paperwork and arrange to have her taken back to the surface. Then, he’d poured her a drink and opened up about Quinn for the first time with anyone outside of the Church. Even Four-Fifty had never known any details outside of the fact they were together. Abigail was quick-witted, fiery, and just as much of a ‘bulldog’ as he was. They shared war-stories of the business, even ribbed a bit on the band, and with the conversation making them lose track of how much they were imbibing, they had also managed to get rather drunk.

Well, Offdensen was drunk. Abigail was relieved and rolling on one hell of a buzz. “Do you think I should go? I think I might have embarrassed him.”

“No, no! Please, I don’t get to do this often.” He stood from the desk and topped off their glasses, moving to the two loveseats facing each other in the small office. Abigail relocated, as well, sitting across from him and relaxing back into the cushions. “I’ll make it up to him later.”

She did her best to repress the wicked grin, muttering into her glass, “I’m sure you will…”

The door leading into the bedroom hissed open and Quinn lost his nerve to step out, pausing just beyond the doorway. “Miss Remeltindtdrinc, would you be offended if I don’t wear my Hood?”

Abigail rolled her eyes dramatically, scoffing. “No, of course not! Save your formalities for the band.”

“We’re off the Klok,” Foster added, turning to watch Quinn step shyly into the office, his wet hair loose, pulling over to one side, covering the scar, barefoot in a pair of ripped black jeans and a Fuck Face Academy t-shirt Foster had gifted to him in secret. Skwisgaar had given him a whole box to auction in one of their tax-break charities a few years back, but Foster didn’t think one t-shirt would make much of a difference, especially after Quinn had admitted that one hell of a teenaged crush on Skwisgaar, hanging in poster-form over a friend’s bed, had been the whole reason he had ever begun listening to Dethklok in the first place. He placed a six-pack of Stella Artois on the coffee table between the two loveseats and settled in next to Foster, opening one and tossing the cap back in the bottle’s slot in the cardboard carrier.

Foster handed him a double-shot of bourbon he had poured and waiting. “Here. You’ll need to catch up.”

Abigail found herself intrigued watching them interact, smirking at Quinn’s eye-roll before tossing the liquor back and chasing it with beer, one leg folded underneath him, turning himself towards Foster. Foster’s hand rested on Quinn’s knee and the other let go of his shyness, laying his own hand over it. Abigail couldn’t help but pry just a little. “How long have you been together?” She couldn’t recall Offdensen indicating a time-frame, and especially with how shockingly young Quinn looked in person, she assumed it was still in its honeymoon stage.

Quinn looked to Foster, thinking. “Hmm, well, if you include the nine months I thought he was dead--which I do--

\--I’m going to be making that up to you for a while, aren’t I?

\--You’re damn right you are… but if you include that, then… about five years? Just shy of it, I think.” Foster nodded, thinking that seemed about right. With the way their relationship had developed, and the nature of them, entirely, they had never determined or observed any kind of anniversary.

Abigail’s jaw dropped. “Wow… so it’s serious, then?”

Quinn shrugged, giving a lopsided smile. Foster squeezed his hand, feeling a warm wave of comfort move through him. “Yes, I’d say it is.”

It took a little bit of time (and booze) for Quinn to get comfortable with Abigail, but she wasn’t difficult to feel relaxed around. They continued their story-trade, Quinn having quite a store of his own. Before the fires, his work assignment had been with the lighting department for live shows, primarily designing plots and working at Mordhaus with pre-production and tech runs, though he had assisted with a tour or two, and the stories were endless. When Abigail excused herself to use the restroom, Foster scoot himself closer to Quinn, wrapping an arm around him. “Still mad I told her?”

“Not mad… a little irritated, I would have liked to have had a say in it, but… I’m sure you had your reasons. And I don’t feel like we have any reason not to trust her.” He tilted his head, trying to read Foster’s expression. “What?”

“Just… missed you. A lot.” His usual way with words was the first casualty with alcohol. Quinn didn’t shy away this time when Foster leaned in and sealed his mouth sloppily over his own, putting a hand at the nape of Foster’s neck and pulling him close, who was grinning like a fool when he pulled away. “How’d an old man like me ever get so lucky?”

Another eye-roll, this one more irritated. This was not by any means the first of such comments for the evening. “We’ve talked about this… when you make those self-deprecating little comments, you’re not just saying you think you’re too old for me. What I hear is that you don’t think I’m genuine in this, that I don’t love you, and _want_ you, as much as I do. Y’know how I’m your type? Well you’re mine. I’ve _always_ been attracted to older men, I’ve _always_ gone weak in the knees for intelligence and a little danger. So fucking _cut it out_ with the whining. I know everyone doubts themselves sometimes, I do it, too, but don’t you doubt _me_. You’re the one constant, solid thing in my life anymore, Foster. I can do that for you, too, if you’d just let me.” He clenched his jaw once it was all out, not realizing he’d been bottling that up for so long. They had started discussing such things over the last several months, but there had only been enough time to have the conversation in pieces.

Foster frowned, touching his cheek. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry… you’re right. And I do try to let you, I do. I want that, too.”

Abigail was already halfway back into the office before realizing she was intruding on a private moment. She corrected course quickly, stepping over to the table and finishing the rest of her glass in one swallow, setting the empty snifter back down. “It’s after midnight, and I think I should leave you two some time alone to catch up. It’s been fun, though, thank you.”

Quinn stood to see her out, but she waved him off, leaning in and culture took over, Quinn meeting her halfway and kissing both cheeks. “This is really the first time we’ve gotten to do this, thank _you_.” Though the Brothers at the Church were aware of their relationship, it was indeed the first time they had both discussed it with someone else, and with such candor. Abigail didn’t know everything, of course, but she knew more than most. She waved to Foster, slowly becoming part of the loveseat, wearing a happy, drunken smile, and let herself out.

Quinn, still standing, took his last beer from the carrier and set it on the table, cleaning up quickly and putting the brandy away, giving Foster another bottle of water. He turned back from the trashcan to find Foster right behind him, startling at first before relaxing again, putting his arms around Foster’s waist as the older man’s hands went into his hair. He mildly regretted teaching him how to master walking silently…

With no audience, now, he gave in fully to the kiss, tugging his shirt free from his slacks to get at his skin, hands wandering his back. Foster pulled away slightly, fingers still curled in Quinn’s hair, now dry. He whispered into his lover’s mouth, “I want you to top tonight…”

A shiver racked through Quinn and he tugged Foster against him more deliberately, leaning in and nipping at his chin. “Sure.” Casting a quick glance over his shoulder, he walked backwards to the desk, pulling Foster with him. When he reached it, he spun them, lifting Foster up onto it and letting out a pleased sigh as Foster’s legs instantly went around his waist. Pulling off his glasses and setting them aside, Quinn leaned back in and kissed him hungrily, slowly unbuttoning his shirt, fingers exploring as skin was exposed. They had not been abstinent in their limited time together during Quinn’s recovery, but there had certainly never been any lull in their sex life over the last five years, and they were both starved for each other.

Quinn had Foster stripped down to his boxer-briefs in no time, Foster finally getting him out of his t-shirt to try and even the odds, popping the button of his jeans. He ran his hands up lean arms and down a flat chest and stomach, grabbing him by the hips and grinding against him. He couldn’t imagine him without his muscle-tone, despite the fact Quinn insisted that before he had become a Klokateer and thus had regular physical training, he was naturally built a bean-pole. All the same, he wasn’t exactly muscular, either, Foster was by far the more solidly built of the two of them, but as he rubbed his thumbs over the sharp cuts at Quinn’s hips, he was glad he’d set up the rigorous PT standards for the Penta Squad.

Snapped out of his worship, he went rigid and let out a startled moan when Quinn put his mouth over the scar at his shoulder and his fingers were stroking its twin at his back. He hadn’t discovered until recently that under the right conditions, he could _feel_ the channel of scar tissue through him, left by the crossbow’s bolt. He was distracted by the odd sensation until the feel of silk against his ribs brought him back to the moment. He leaned back against the desk and looked down at Quinn holding his tie, which he had removed and set aside not long after he and Abigail had begun drinking together. He looked from the tie to the wicked gleam in Quinn’s eyes, then back to the tie.

“Turn around.” Quinn had stepped back to give Foster room to sit up and then stand, turning to face away from him. Long fingers trailed down his right arm first, circling around his wrist and forcing it against the small of his back, then the left, crossing them and beginning to bind them, securing it with a tight knot. When he was finished, Quinn touched his hip to prompt him to face him again. “On your knees.”

His cock twitched at the words, pounding as he carefully went down on one knee and then the other, looking up at Quinn from his new vantage point. Quinn lifted a finger to tell him to wait, leaving the room for a moment and returning with a few items, setting them on the desk out of Foster’s view. He then flicked on the small Tiffany lamp, locked the office door, and turned off all of the other lights. Returning to Foster, he pulled a simple satin scarf from his pocket, one they often used as a blindfold, applying it as such now. It was rare that Foster submitted to him, but on the occasions that it happened, he committed it to it, fully. He had never had a lover he could trust enough to surrender to in such a way, but Quinn gave him no hesitation in the matter. Quinn, too, rarely felt the urge or nerve to dominate, but seeing Foster like this--bound, on his knees, blindfolded, and rock-hard--made it easy enough to assume the role.

There was a bit more shuffling about once he was blindfolded and music just loud enough to keep some background noise began playing, an obscure French metal band Quinn had gotten into a while back. Foster had tried to fuck to Dethklok for him before, but it was just too awkward.

He felt the anticipation start to pump his blood full of adrenaline, not having to think about it all when he took as much of Quinn as he could into his mouth the moment the crown grazed his lips. Quinn let him take his own pace for a while, a hand in his hair and the other rubbing at his shoulders, letting out soft moans and growls as Foster worked his way down, letting the head of his cock slide down the back of his throat. They were opposites in as many ways as they were similar; Foster compact and Quinn a full head taller, and whereas Foster was of average length but impressive girth, Quinn was of average girth, but long enough to make Foster choke by the time he had his nose buried in the musky thatch of pubic hair. He tried to pull back, but Quinn had both hands in his hair now, holding his head there for a moment longer before finally letting him catch his breath. The reprieve was brief, giving him only a moment and then he started to fuck his mouth, outright, slow only at first, and then rough.

Foster’s eyes began to water, the I-4N Eye starting to glitch each time Quinn shoved himself all the way down his throat. He worked hard to focus long enough to press down on the override sitting just beneath the skin of the heel of his right palm, quickly tracking the prompt screen’s selection to disable the Oculus for now. Once that was done and his vision went unprompted black, he relaxed fully, moaning around Quinn, feeling drool and pre-cum sliding over his chin, dripping down and mixing with the sweat beading across his chest, dampening the thick hair there.

When Quinn finally relented, Foster was gasping for breath, sitting back on his heels for a moment to collect himself. He sucked at his own tongue, tasting Quinn, but he knew he hadn’t cum yet. Another similarity between them; impeccable stamina.

Quinn’s hand at his elbow helped him stand and slim fingers pulled his underwear down to his ankles, a sharp slap at the back of his calf prompting him to step out of them. He let himself be guided to the desk again, the wood cold against his bare ass as he was laid back against it, one knee hooked over Quinn’s shoulder, shuddering to be so exposed. He was flexible enough that the position was easy, however, his thigh pressed against his stomach as Quinn leaned down, effectively folding him like a switchblade, kissing him slowly, bringing the pace back down. His pulse had started to descend as he let Quinn’s tongue explore his mouth, but his heart was hammering again when cold, slick fingers began to rub against his sphincter, his whole body quivering with anticipation. His back arched, hard, when Quinn slid the first finger in, and then soon after, a second. He was gentle enough at first, stroking and scissoring slowly to help him relax before he added a third and began to fuck him with them in earnest, his mouth wandering to Foster’s throat and then to the spot just under his jaw that pulled the most incredible sounds out of him, his voice cracking, toes curling.

Quinn’s hand wrapped around his cock and he let out a strangled cry, shaking his head. “I--I won’t last…” It had been too long, and with the blindfold muting his senses, the tactile stimuli was intense. Quinn relented, his hand wandering up and seizing a handful of chest hair, tugging hard. The dull pain helped him keep himself in check, gasping when teeth closed down around his collarbone. Quinn knew exactly how much pain to inflict to keep him on his toes, curling again as all three fingers were shoved inside him to the last knuckle, and then crooked. He wanted to tell him to slow down again, that he wasn’t going to make it through to the end, but he couldn’t make words happen in any of the now seven languages he had available to him. They had all abandoned him.

Quinn’s hot breath pooled in his ear, “Do you want me to fuck you?”

Foster realized his eyes were watering again and he could hear his own breath hitching before he realized he could feel his chest had started to quake. “Y-yes! _Please_!”

And then the mouth and hands were gone and in the next instant, he was being dragged off the desk, flipped over, and shoved face-down back against the polished mahogany. When he felt the lubed head of Quinn’s cock start to rub and circle, he tilted his hips, squeezing his bound hands into tight fists and forcing himself to relax just in time, Quinn shoving inside in one thrust. It knocked the wind out of him and Quinn’s warmth covered his back, gentle kisses peppering over the Gear tattooed between his shoulderblades, a hand coming to rest around his throat, not squeezing, but letting Foster know exactly who he belonged to. His intoxication had shifted drastically, the brandy long forgotten and something darker, much better, taking it’s place, making him feel like he was back on the ‘good drugs’ post-surgery.

When Quinn finally started to move, there was no work-up. Each thrust was hard and deep, the sound of their skin slapping together now louder than the blast-beats and down-tuned guitars coming from the small stereo in the corner of the office. The fingers around his throat moved to his hair, grabbing a handful and pulling his head back, Quinn at his ear again, sucking at the lobe. “Fuck, you’re tight…”

He wanted to say something back, but his language skills were still unsalvageably impaired. Instead, he let his mouth hang open, head wrenched back, and got loud. Moans, whines, near-screams, and now and again Quinn’s name, which earned him a sharp, possessive bite to the shoulder that had him screaming, full-force. “I! _OhfuckI’mgonnacum--_ ”

He was vaguely aware of Quinn growling in his ear something along the lines of ‘yeah, cum for me’ but he was already detaching from conscious thought, his body tensing up and his cock pulsing, making a mess against the front of the desk. Quinn let go of his hair and grabbed him roughly by the hips, fucking him mercilessly as Foster clenched and released around him, the older man whimpering despite himself as his lover slammed into him one last time, feeling the cock he could still taste on his tongue now releasing inside him.

They stayed like that for a moment, panting heavily, Quinn buried in Foster and Foster quivering underneath him, drowning in afterglow. A tiny, forlorn sound left him when Quinn carefully pulled out, freeing his hands first and then giving him back his sight, earning himself another small gasp from Foster as he picked him up and flipped him over, laying him on his back once more and spreading himself out over him, finding his mouth in a sloppy, blissed-out haze, fingers speared into his hair. Foster clutched onto him, arms and legs and fingers and tongue, not accustomed enough to submitting to know what he needed to come back down. All the same, Quinn kept control, forcing Foster to release his vice-grip and kiss him back slowly, gently, bringing the energy slowly back to nominal. When the shaking under him had stopped, he stood and helped Foster to sit up, leaving him at the edge of the desk while he dug the ashtray and pack of cigarettes out of the desk drawer, returning with them and handing Foster the ashtray to hold, standing between his spread thighs and sharing a cigarette between them.

“How are you feeling?”

Foster took a moment to find the right words, his fingers curling around the glass ashtray as Quinn snubbed the last of the cigarette out. “Recalibrated.”

A soft laugh ghosted against his lips and the kiss felt sated, tender. Quinn pat his hip as he pulled away, taking the ashtray back. “I’ll clean up in here, you go clean up yourself. I’ll be there in a minute.”

Nodding, Foster laughed at himself as he tried to stand of his own accord, fell back onto the desk, and had to try again before his legs decided to work, feeling like they were made of rubber as he staggered through to the bedroom and then to the shower, washing up quickly and returning to their private room as Quinn was coming in from the office, now dark, carrying Foster’s glasses and setting them on the bedside table.

Quinn kissed his cheek as he passed him to get the bathroom, quickly cleaning up, himself, before pulling on a clean pair of boxers and crawling into bed beside Foster, still nude. He put his hands through the wet, dark hair, pulling it forward. He loved his hair unstyled best, it completed the transformation for him from Commander to partner. Foster’s fingers found his and they wound around each other. “I’ve been working on something, I want your input.”

Quinn sat up, resting against the headboard as Foster pulled a file folder from the drawer of the nightstand. Quinn flicked on the lamp and paged through it, confused and caught off guard.

_Quinn Chevalier_  
_b. 5 mai 1985, Colmar, France_

There were falsified education records, a birth certificate with a non-existent Jean-Pierre Chevalier as his father, even doctored newspaper articles to establish a history that was plain enough and close enough to the truth to slide. Foster had made this alias a life-long member of la Bonne Terre, the last, and least aggressive, of the cults he and his mother had been a part of.

And then the will.

_I leave the entirety of my estate to Klokateer 21537, Quinn Chevalier._

He did well to keep his wits about him, unable to process what this was for, or what Foster was getting at with it. “Well, you guessed my age right…”

Foster grinned, rubbing down Quinn’s arm. “I did?”

“Mmhmm…” He had turned twenty-seven that spring.

The last document had the backs of his ears going cold. He wasn’t sure what he was looking at, even though it was perfectly plain. Everything had already been filled out except for the dates and the place for he and Foster’s signatures, the document more or less describing the same conditions as the will.

_In the event of a dissolution of the marriage between Messrs. Offdensen and Chevalier, all assets, collateral or monetary, will be awarded solely to Mr. Quinn Chevalier._

An eerie calm settled over him, staring at the document. “Are you asking me…?”

“To sign a prenuptial agreement, yes.” Foster felt his nerves start to abandon their posts, but he rallied them back together. “I know neither of us really buy into marriage, I’m not exactly asking you to marry me, I don’t have a ring or anything silly like that. I just… I just have me. And I can only pray that… you’ll, ah, have me, too.”

Quinn closed the file and looked up at him at last, but his expression was unreadable and he offered no insights to his thoughts. He needed more information.

Foster pursed his lips, spreading his hands in front of him. “There’s one account I’d like to keep, for emergencies, but other than that, I want to ensure that if anything happens to me, or if I somehow fuck this up, that you either get everything I have, or I pay dearly. If we’re going to continue being together in secret, I think it’s in our best interest to establish as much documented credibility we can as to why I would leave everything I have to my security detail.”

There it was, the logic Quinn needed to hear. He didn’t do well with irrational romantic gestures, among which marriage was included. As far as he was concerned, he hoped to love Foster until the day he died, and a ceremony and rings felt like cheap, desperate attempts to solidify that, when they both knew that the only thing to keep it going was work. They’d had their challenges, and they had worked through them. That’s what their love was about, not archaic rituals and legal documents. But the logic, that he couldn’t argue much with.

The silence was making Foster feel nauseous. “ _...mon cœur?_ ”

Quinn smiled, reaching out and laying his hand gently against Foster’s cheek. “ _Ja._ ”

“I--” He had a whole slew of backpedaling ready to go, but he stopped short, realizing it had not been a question, but a response. He turned and kissed Quinn’s palm, pulling him into his arms. “Thank you.”

Quinn squeezed him tightly, face buried against his throat. “You know I’m a sucker for a rational argument.” Pulling apart, Quinn let out a small laugh, shaking his head. “But I don’t want your money, it’s never been about the money. I’ll sign whatever you put in front of me, but all I want is you. That’s all I ever wanted, in the first place.”

Foster feigned a relieved sigh. “And here I was, thinking all this time I was just your sugar-daddy.” That earned him a hard slap on the arm, and then a gentle kiss. “Things are about to get much, much harder, Quinn. We have to be ready, even for the things we hope never come.”

Golden eyes stared into him deeper than he knew existed, into places only Quinn had ever helped him explore. “I told you before, I’m with you. Whatever you do, wherever all this takes us, if there’s one thing I know I believe in for sure, it’s you.”

They both jumped as the long, low song of a whale, somewhere close, rattled through the submarine. Quinn let out a long-suffering sigh, leaning into Foster again, both of them relaxing in an embrace, the file tossed back onto the nightstand. “I don’t know what’s coming, and I’d be lying to you if I said wasn’t afraid, but you’re the one thing that makes me think I can do this, that maybe we can actually make it out of this still standing. And I want you with me.”

“I already am.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because CFO would never go down on one knee, he'd just have you sign a contract.


	3. This is Just a Tribute

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"Well, you guys don't need to know **everything** that goes into it... just know that it's a long, complicated, expensive process..."_
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> A little Klokateer appreciation, a side of the story I didn't quite get to delve into with Morte Lumina but is still pretty essential over-all to the day-to-day truth of how Mordhaus' underbelly operates. The behind-the-scenes version of TributeKlok, set somewhere between Chapters 7 and 8.

JoJo scuffed the toe of his boot against the curb, standing point in the alley outside Palamino’s in plain-clothes. Quinn came down the alley from the backdoor, having ensured the whole block was now secure. “Hey Frenchie. Good to have you back, man.”

Quinn smiled behind the bandana, pulling it off his face, still hidden under the hood of his jacket. “Thanks. Good to _be_ back.”

“You feelin’ good?”

“Yeah, mostly. A little off my game, a little outta shape, but it’s like riding a bike, right?”

JoJo laughed, crushing the now empty paper cup of gas-station coffee, tossing it into one of the dumpsters outside the club. “Yeah, yeah, sure. If riding a bike means twenty-hour shifts and probable death.”

They both laughed, Quinn shoving his hands deep into his pockets, heading further out of the alley and onto the sidewalk in front of the club. “All right, I’m on comm if you need anything, I’ll be on watch at the bar.” He left JoJo and entered the club, a small crowd starting a half-hearted mosh-pit as he took a seat at the far side of the bar, affording him a view of the whole place. There were two other agents in the crowd, as well as five stationed around the club. There had been no incidents yet, but they were Penta Squad: expect anything. He’d seen a quiet hunting trip with Master Explosion and his father turn into an attempted kidnapping situation that left two of his unit dead. Master Explosion had not noticed a thing (though Oscar had become rather suspicious of the automatic fire coming from the other side of the lake).

The show was uneventful, but on-point as always. When they played The Gears, Quinn had to grip the bar not to lose himself, opening up the comm for the rest of the team to listen. All the same, he made sure his sleeve was tugged far down over his Brand, one of the few that was not blessed at the back of his neck like most. When their anthem was over, he closed the comm line again and order a drink, eavesdropping on a few people next to him. As the show ended, he tucked himself into the corner, muttering quietly into the mic clipped into the collar of his jacket, “There’s an after-party at 177 Mulgrove, unit D. Caught wind the band will be invited, can I get recon over there now?”

The crackling response came quickly, “on it”, with the sound of an engine turning over in the background. He watched the crowd for another twenty minutes, show now over, then got up to fake a conversation with Clinton very near where the band was now drinking at the bar. Just as ‘Thunderhorse’ was indeed being invited to the after-party, another voice came through in his ear: “All clear here for the after-party, we’ll have a perimeter in place momentarily. ETA?”

Clinton turned away and spoke into his watch. “Looks like they’ll be heading out in the next thirty. Good work.”

When the band returned backstage to put the rest of their things into the shithole camper, Clinton pat Quinn’s arm and pointed him in the direction of the exit. “Grab JoJo, you two head on over to the drop-zone. Make a sweep, then watch the entrance.”

Quinn nodded an affirmative before exiting back into the street, a blast of cold air forcing him deeper into the hoodie, pulling the bandana up over his face again. “Jo, let’s hit it. They’re going to an after-party, you and me are taking point.”

Three hours later, they were running too low on gas to keep the heater running, sitting in the quiet car outside unit D. JoJo had gone up the street to the gas station and brought back two coffees, Quinn warming his hands around the styrofoam cup. The party seemed to be winding down, but the band was still inside, Clinton upstairs with them, pretending to be passed out on the couch just to keep an eye on the band. Outside in the black sedan with plates they’d stolen from a grocery store parking lot, Quinn and JoJo had started to chat, mostly to pass the time.

“This reminds me of when I was just a little dipshit, right before I started listening to Dethklok. I thought I was a total badass, but I was just a geek with black nail polish.” He laughed at himself, tucking a leg up in the seat, turning a bit towards Quinn, watching the main street at the corner. Some of the best of them had come from nothing, built up from scratch into elite Klokateers. The ex-military guys and the martial artists were assets, but all of the head intelligence agents had been regular fans before taking their oaths.

Quinn shook his head “Yeah, I was… shit, sixteen the first time I saw them. In Oslo. I got my nose broken and was blackout-drunk for the first time. I thought it was awesome then, now… what a fuckin’ douchebag I was.” JoJo was laughing in his nasal way, affectionately slapping Quinn’s arm.

“Kid, we missed you. We were worried, for real. But uh… that personal detail with Offdensen, that’s, um… working out?” Quinn didn’t like where this was going, but shrugged.

“Sure, yeah, it’s good. I’m honored, ya know?”

“Where do you stay at, anyway?”

“There’s a guest room in his quarters,” he lied, easily. This much he had at least thought out beforehand, knowing there were some details that his unit would be curious of. “He insisted I be on call 24/7, it works out.”

“So is there anything… personal?” This wasn’t new. The others had teased him lightly about Offdensen for some time, and the rumor of his occasional ‘arrangements’ with Klokateers was unfortunately well-circulated among those in closer proximity to their Commander.

“Depends on your definition of personal.” He pressed his hands against the steering wheel to brace back into the seat, stretching with a few loud pops from his lower back. “We eat meals together sometimes, and will trade books, read together on the weekends, usually. He doesn’t like for it to be too formal, especially since I’m there all the time, so I’ve relaxed mostly for his sake. I get it, I mean, If I was always on alert, he’d never feel like he was away from work. It’s hard to let my guard down, but, he’s good like that.”

JoJo shook his head, “Naw, naw, I know what you mean. When my sister passed and I was so fucked up about it, I went to him to request my leave, and he drove me to the airport _himself_ , put me on a plane and told me to take as much time as I needed. It’s one thing he’s a hell of a leader, but… yeah, no, I get you. He’s a good guy.” The serious moment passed and he was grinning again. “So uh… is that all you do together?”

“Oh fuck you.” Quinn rolled his eyes and quickly changed the subject. “How long you think this will last?”

“What, you mean the whole ThunderKlok thing? Are we putting money on this?”

“Eve’s starting a pool, yeah. You know they booked that mental health benefit, right?”

“Ooooh shit, dude!” More laughter out of his nose. “OK, OK… I give it two weeks.”

“Pssh, wishful thinking. I give it ten days.” He texted Four-Fifty with their bets, a hundred each on it, then tossed his phone up on the dashboard. “Fuck Detroit… I’m freezing.”

Without warning, the backdoor of the car opened and JoJo had a revolver in Offdensen’s face before he could register what was happening. “S-sir! Sorry, sir!” He put the weapon away but did not relax. Quinn adjusted the rearview mirror, meeting Offdensen’s eyes there.

“No need to apologize, Eighty-One-One-Forty-Seven. I just came to, ah, check up on you gentlemen. Anything of interest?”

“No, sir,” Quinn answered, still holding Offdensen’s gaze in the mirror. “All’s quiet here, things went smoothly at the show.”

“Good. I’ve got Four-Ninety-Seven-Ten wrapping up the last of this, looks like the band is going to sleep in the camper for the night. You two head back to the safehouse, get some rest. You’ll be back on assignment once they’re moving again tomorrow.”

Two voices answered in tandem, “Yes, sir.” Offdensen moved to slip out of the car just as the Mercedes was pulling up alongside to pick him up. His hand went to Quinn’s shoulder as he stood from the car, squeezing briefly before he was in the Mercedes and gone.

Ten days later, they had lost four people and it hurt to draw a full breath, something Quinn was thankful adrenaline tuned out as Clinton was shoving a hood on over his head while he slung the SUV around in the parking lot, charging out into the street and laying on the horn. Most of the crowd dove out of the way. Not all. The other three Klokateers were out of the car before it had skidded to a full stop, and started firing, clearing the crowd that had converged on Murderface and grabbing their target, hurrying back in the car. Once all the doors had shut, Quinn threw it in reverse and tore back off toward the edge of town, on radio to rendezvous with the chopper at the next bridge. Clinton was on another channel, calling for a clean-up crew.

Quinn took a quick look in the backseat, catching a face full of terror, eyebrows nearly up under the dry bangs, eyes all whites. “Master Murderface, are you all right?”

“ _Jeschusch_ , you guysch couldn’t’a been a _little_ faschter?” He was fine. The crowd had broken his fall, he was little more than shaken and roughed up. After a moment of collecting himself, he looked around at the four men he was wedged into the vehicle with. “...do you guysch think I’m an asschhole? I mean, wasch that a dick move, schayin’ that?”

The car was dead silent for a moment. Quinn watched a state trooper tail him, sirens blazing, and then watched it get the call to stand down, lights going off and taking the next turn, leaving them to charge through the streets to the rendezvous point. “Well, uh, Master, we’re all on the payroll, so, technically, metaphorically, we’re already sucking your, um, trillionaire cock.”

He gripped the steering wheel and hoped like hell that wasn’t the wrong thing to say, relaxing when Murderface settled back into the seat with a laugh. “Yeah, wrong crowd, huh? People are juscht _too schenschitive!_ ”

The chopper blocked traffic on all six lanes of the bridge, landed to ensure there were no more slip-ups. Quinn watched as Murderface was escorted to the loading bay and waited until the chopper was back in the air, continuing on over the bridge. There was still work to be done here, the safe house had to be swept and there was a loose end in the trunk of a rented sedan that needed to be scheduled for secure transport. With four of their team gone, it was going to be a long night.

*****.

Offdensen only glanced up at the knock on his door, seeing the full uniform and quickly looking back at the laptop. “Yes?”

The soldier entered, tossing two files onto the desk. “My report, sir. The subject is prepped for interview when you’re ready.”

Offdensen reached to lift the report off of the file under it, tilting his head. An employee record.

“I took the liberty of pulling the file. _You_ can call her husband.”

Offdensen’s brows drew tightly together and he looked up fully now at the Klokateer. “Excuse me?”

Quinn snatched up the front of his hood, flipping it back. Offdensen’s heart lurched, once to realize how much Quinn became a faceless soldier when he put on full gear -- covered head-to-toe and even his voice modulated -- and again when he saw the rage behind those eyes. “If you ever do that to me again, we’re done. Do you understand? She’s dead because you got worried and pulled me off my position. That’s on you. If you had trusted me and let me do my fucking job, she might still be alive.” His gloved hands creaked into fists at his sides and Foster knew the knuckles were going white under the leather. “You’re not the only one serving two masters here. If I had to choose, I’d pick you in a heartbeat, but for the time being, I am still a Klokateer, I’m still a soldier, and I _earned_ my way into Penta Squad before you ever put your dick in me. I think you forget that sometimes.”

He was panting mostly due to the discomfort when taking full breaths, still. He hadn’t gotten out of the assignment unscathed, for certain. It was rare any of them did. Foster’s eyes softened and he leaned back with a heavy sigh, spreading his hands uselessly in front of him. “I’m sorry. I am, I’m sorry. I… you know I get my intuition moments, I had a bad one and my judgment swayed to keep you safe.”

“I understand that. But we made a promise, that we wouldn’t let what happens between us interfere with either of our work. Someone _died_. A good friend _**died**_ because you made a bad call. I’m serious, Foster. This can _never_ happen again. I love you, but I will walk, and take the repercussions when I disobey a direct order.”

Foster stood, that slimy feeling when he knew he had fucked up and deserved to feel like shit bubbling up from the pit of his stomach. “I promise you, it will never happen again.”

“Yeah, you promised me it wouldn’t happen in the first place.” Quinn tugged the Hood back down, another nameless, faceless soldier again, and turned back towards the door.

“Wait! Please, stay… can we… can we talk about this?”

He stopped at the door, not turning around fully, but offering over his shoulder before exiting the office, “I have a funeral to get to.”

Foster was left standing at his desk for a few moments after the door closed, finally sitting back down. They had argued before, had bad days around one another, but they had never had a fight like this. He had never seen Quinn truly angry at him, and he knew he had earned that anger. The ‘tingle’ he got now and then when the boys were doing something they shouldn’t or like when the raid on Mordhaus had come… it had been so so strong. It was as if in that moment he knew that if he did not pull Quinn out of the situation with Crozier’s men, he would lose him. The decision had been selfish and while he regretted what had transpired because of it, he didn’t regret that Quinn was still alive.

Reminded of the attempted infiltration -- he was still deeply bothered that Crozier had even _known_ about the Thunderhorse situation -- and knowing he could not focus on much else for the time being, Offdensen made a quick and difficult phone call, then grabbed his keys, heading down to Cell Block F. Interrogation was a specialty for him, and while he would admit it to no one, it was also therapeutic. The darker fantasies he harbored, sexually, could be thrown scraps from the things sometimes required of him in his work.

His jacket and tie were already gone and he was rolling up his sleeves as he entered the small concrete cell, the table of instruments set out for him beside the man bound to the chair, the chair bolted to the floor, the floor stained with blood. He was already roughed up, split-lipped, but there was always room for more. Offdensen walked close enough that his face was visible under the single light, placing his hands on his hips. “I want you to know, I’m in a shitty mood, so it would be in your best interest not to fuck around.” He looked over the tools laid out for him with careful interest, finally selecting the blowtorch first. “Now… let’s start with the easy questions.” He clicked the starter and let the tip of the blue flame begin to bubble away flesh at the back of the man’s hand, impressed and the tiniest bit excited to see the soldier -- likely a mercenary -- grit his teeth and bear it. “Where is Crozier getting his information?”

“Ffffuckyou.” All in a rush, letting it sneak out past his teeth around a scream he was desperately trying to keep in. “Yyyy-you’llhavet’killme.”

After a long moment of watching the man fight his scream, Offdensen let up on the torch, setting it aside. “Oh don’t worry. We’ll get to that.”

He picked up a ball-peen hammer, weighted it appreciatively in his hand. He thought again of the anger in Quinn’s eyes, felt the slimy guilt bubble in his gut, and tried again.


End file.
